


i have tasted many names

by Atlanta_Black



Series: Harry Potter One-shots [16]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Dark Mark ceremony, Dom/sub Undertones, Getting Together, M/M, No Beta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25080895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanta_Black/pseuds/Atlanta_Black
Summary: There isn't a lot in life that surprises him anymore.Barty will always be the exception to this rule.
Relationships: Bartemius Crouch Jr./Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Bartemius Crouch Jr./Voldemort
Series: Harry Potter One-shots [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875151
Comments: 13
Kudos: 69





	i have tasted many names

**Author's Note:**

> Hey-o friends!
> 
> This is the companion fic to [_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us (tell me we'll never get used to it)_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429606). 
> 
> It can be read alone as a stand alone as well
> 
> Enjoy <3

_History repeats itself. Somebody says this._

_History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,_

_over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters._

_History is a little man in a brown suit_

_trying to define a room he is outside of._

_I know history. There are many names in history_

_but none of them are ours._

little beast by richard siken

  


* * *

  


There isn't a lot in life that surprises him anymore.

It's not that he's particularly bothered by this but he does find himself sometimes wishing for everyone to not be so predictable. Finds himself uselessly wishing that his followers weren't all the same.

It's been a week since Hogwarts spit out a new class of graduates and like clockwork his followers had bullied all of their of age children into taking the mark. They think that he doesn't know about that bit. They think that he believes them when they tell him that their children are so honored to be entering his service.

He does occasionally wish it were true, it would make everything much simpler, but, at the end of the day, he doesn't much care whether or not they’re honored. He only cares that they're loyal and marginally smart.

This doesn't seem like a lot to ask.

But apparently it is. This batch of recruits is just as stupid as the last and just as weak. Just as scared. He's only done marking two of the twelve recruits and he's already sick of them. Sick of their terror and half-formed pleas.

He hates to speak well of his original twelve followers but Merlin, at least they hadn't begged during the ceremony. They hadn't screamed and cried and carried on like children.

By the time he gets to the 8th recruit he's moved past annoyance and has gone straight to furious. Does he need to tell his followers how to do everything? Can they not even raise their own children correctly without his input? What fools send these weak willed children to him and expect him to believe that they are honored to be here?

The 8th boy already has his arm extended before he can even take the couple steps to reach him. He's too furious to care. One small shred of competence won’t matter in the end.

It isn't until he has his nails digging into the boy's arm that he pauses, stares down at the blonde hair peeking out from under the cloak. This one feels different. Feels monumental in a way none of his other followers ever have.

It takes him a moment of concentration, a moment to banish the rest of the weak willed children from his mind, and then he finds himself narrowing his eyes — in bafflement, confusion, disbelief. All three. This one isn't shaking. He knows that his nails are digging into the boys skin, that his anger is obvious in the air. The boy should be shaking. No matter how brave he _thinks_ he is or how stupid he is, he should be shaking. He should be terrified.

"Look at me,” He hisses, the words barely English, ready to tear through the boy's mind, see what drugs he's used to keep himself this calm. He is ready to obliterate the boy for nearly botching the entire ceremony but—

—but he's barely brushed the boy's mind before the words are crashing into him, balanced precariously on a wave of awe.

_His eyes are red. So fucking red it looks like someone spilled the sunset into his eyes._

The words are followed by a barrage of emotions that all fall somewhere in the vicinity of awe and a bone shaking need that he's not sure what to make of.

He raises an eyebrow at the boy, at the boy who's staring directly into his eyes, no fear evident anywhere on his face. His hood has fallen back to reveal messy blonde hair and it makes him look all the younger for it. The boy blinks, blue eyes fluttering shut and open so quickly it's as if he's scared that he'll blink and Voldemort himself will have disappeared. He tilts his head, doesn't blink, keeps waiting for the fear to find its way into the too trusting eyes still staring up at him.

The fear never comes.

Only more awe.

The arm under his hand is still steady. He gentles his hold, catches the tide of _please please please_ latched onto the longing washing through his mind.

At this point he's not sure if the boy actually knows how to feel anything other than awe and longing. Isn't sure he minds.

“I do believe you will do just fine,” He murmurs, noting the way the boy's eyes widen even further, the way he just barely leans forward, eyes never wavering from Voldemort's own.

What has he done to make this boy so devoted to him?

 _Oh, he's a legilimens._ The words float across the boy's mind almost too quickly to grasp. _Doesn't matter. I trust him. I trust him. I trust him._ Who is he trying to convince? Another rush of need washes through the boy and he pauses, centers himself.

Perhaps the trust, the devotion is real. Perhaps. But will it hold up under the pain of the marking? How devoted can one boy really be?

He doesn't break his gaze from the boy’s. Stays on the edge of the boy’s thoughts and brings his wand up, fights back a shudder at the want racing through the boy’s head. At this point the boy is barely even thinking coherent thoughts. Is just chanting the same word over and over.

A litany of pleading. A prayer with Voldemort as his god. He's not sure he's ever felt this powerful, giving someone his mark and he grips that power tight and funnels it all into the mark forming on the boy's skin.

The boy is _supposed_ to be in pain. The same way he was supposed to be shaking. Was supposed to be scared.

He shouldn't be surprised that this also hasn't gone as it should.

The magic wraps around the boy and he waits for the first gasp of pain. Waits for the awe to recede into panic. Is still waiting when the first wave of contentment rolls through the boy's mind.

_He feels like rain in the spring. Like the ocean air. Please. Is this what being remade feels like? Is this what it's like to be cleansed? Please, please, please._

The boy keeps babbling, pausing at times to just ride the wave of pleasure he seems to be permanently submerged in. The boy is determinedly keeping his eyes open even though Voldemort can feel how badly the boy wants to close them. It seems he wants to keep eye contact more though. Not that this stops his head from slowly starting to dip forward and Voldemort finds himself reaching out, pressing a finger to soft skin and tipping his head back up. He keeps his finger there, settled under the boy's chin, enjoying the way that the blue of his eyes moves from the color of the sky to that of the sea before a storm.

 _I wonder if this bothers him._ The thought flits through the boy’s mind and is so out of place that he nearly blinks. _I wonder if I'm too devoted. If this is too much. Does he hate this? Does he want me to be like the rest?_ He presses harder against the boys chin, feels a wave of relief rinse through him, follows the movement of his throat as he swallows.

Does his opinion truly matter that much to this boy? Would he turn into a mindless follower like the rest if Voldemort asked him to? What a horrible thought. To take something so unique and devoted to him and turn it into something so mundane.

The boy blinks, tilts his head back even farther, the curve of his throat seeming to beg for his touch. He parts his lips on an exhale and leaves them parted. He looks so perfectly blissed out on Voldemort's magic. The painting of a saint, Voldemort his god. The statue of a devout follower, Voldemort his master. And then the lantern light hits his cheekbones just right and Voldemort has a sudden moment of clarity on who the boy is.

The possessive pride that rushes through him has nothing to do with the fact that he has gained another follower and _everything_ to do with the boy sitting in front of him.

Barty Crouch Jr. Son of the head of the DoMLE. The son of one of the most influential ministry workers. Knelt at his feet and so devoted to him that he could do anything he wanted and the boy would fucking thank him. Would gut himself at Voldemort’s feet to make him happy.

There are other pieces coming together in the back of his head. Letters that he had carefully crafted hoping to draw in a new follower. Letters he had received packed full of information.

He had wanted to gain a spies loyalty and he had. Had gained more than that.

The magic spikes, racing through his veins, and curling its way out of his wand.

This is usually the moment that he hates the most. Feeling another person's magic twisted with his own. It's a necessary procedure for the level of loyalty that he wants guaranteed but it always leaves his skin crawling. Leaves him wishing that he could drink a liter of rubbing alcohol to cleanse his magic of their touch.

This feels nothing like that. Barty's magic twists its way around his and he feels as if he's on fire. The devotion and awe twisted so completely through everything that Barty is that it's even apart of his magic. Is there racing its way through Voldemort, catching on the edges of his skin and sinking into his bones. Creeping into every part of him, leaving no part of him untouched by the devotion burning its way through him.

This must be what it feels like to transcend humanity and become a god of your own making. To know that you have been put on a pedestal that only the devout can place you upon.

Barty whimpers, a high pitched noise that catches in the back of his throat and lingers somewhere on the edge of Voldemort's skin.

He feels the mark finishing, burning it's way onto Barty's arm and has to focus on drawing his hand back, away from Barty's face, away from his skin. Focuses on carefully letting go of the arm still being held in his hand.

It's over.

He still has four more below average, boring children to mark. He cannot stand here and stare at this boy forever. (He has forever. This boy does not.)

 _How do I look away?_ The thought loops it's way across Barty's thoughts and he blinks, realizes that he's still in Barty's head. Because the boy still hasn't looked away. Is sitting there, blinking up at him, eyes dazed. _Please. Please, my lord. Please._

He almost wants to laugh. Such devotion and yet, such daring. Who else would dare beg him so blatantly for something he's never given to any of his followers. And yet, who else has he marked in that way?

He smirks, watches the way the boy's eyes catch on his mouth and follows the movement of his tongue as he licks his lips. Yes, what lovely devotion.

He reaches over, revels in the way it never even occurs to the boy to flinch and digs his hands into the blond hair still on display. Digs his fingers in and yanks the boys head down, catches the sound of air leaving the boys mouth. Watches the way his fingers twist themselves farther into his robes.

He really is going to have such fun taking this boy apart.

  


* * *

  


He watches the recruits leave, all of them trying to subtly glance at the boy still kneeling on the floor. Hood still thrown back, head still bowed. If he’s not mistaken, Barty doesn’t even realize that the rest of the recruits are leaving. The door slams shut, leaving the room empty except for him and the boy kneeling at his feet.

He crouches down in front of the boy, putting them face to face for the first time. Barty doesn’t look up. Doesn’t seem to register his presence at all. He finds himself frowning slightly, he had done the ritual perfectly but he had pushed a lot more power through Barty than through any of the other recruits. Had it broken him in some way?

He places a finger under the boy’s chin and lifts his head, catching glazed eyes with his own and brushing over the boy’s mind. Ah. No, nothing at all is broken. There is a haze of contentment wrapped around the boy's mind so thick it feels as if he’s treading through fog just to catch a glimpse of the boy's thoughts. How interesting.

Barty is blinking slowly, the glazed look receding in bits and pieces. He hovers at the top of Barty’s thoughts and smirks when the boy leans in as soon as he’s properly registered who’s in front of him. He doesn’t believe he’ll ever tire of that reaction. So at odds with the reaction of every other follower he has.

His thoughts briefly flick to Bellatrix and he grimaces. No, this is different in a way he can’t quite place but it is nothing like the manic focus that she places on him.

The boy is staring straight at him again, no fear, no hesitation. Observations on his appearance ride through his mind attached to another wave of awe. How long will it take for the boy to stop finding things to be awed about?

“I can not decide if you’re unprecedentedly devoted to me or if you’ve somehow fooled yourself into believing that you’re in love with me.” He muses, keeping his voice low and calm. Delights in the way he can nearly see the boy soaking the words into his skin.

 _Does he want an answer? Do I even have an answer? Merlin, how do I even explain that? He’s just….him. He’s him does that require an explanation? Does everyone else no--_ The thought stutters to a halt and there’s a wave of rejection and something heavy pushed to the side. He doesn’t follow it, let’s the boy have his secret for now.

“Yes, I want an answer you ridiculous boy.” He rolls his eyes, exasperation catching on his words and feels the boy’s mind go curiously blank.

He looks up to find Barty blinking again, looking very confused and just a bit overwhelmed. He’s surprised it took this long for the boy to begin to feel overwhelmed. Seems to be surprised about a lot of things when it comes to him. Barty licks his lip, opens his mouth as if to speak and then pauses, swallowing heavily.

 _“I was made for you.”_ The words lay heavy in the air and Voldemort doesn’t realize that he’s still got his finger still under the boy’s chin until it slips down, into the hollow space of his throat.

He lets his hand curl around the boy’s throat, feels the rabbit fast race of his pulse and for once he doesn’t think it’s in fear. “You really believe that don’t you.” watches the way Barty licks his lip, anticipation latched onto the edge of every other thought. “What would you let me do to you?” 

“Anything,” Barty says immediately, no hesitation anywhere in his mind. “I am yours to do with you as you will. Yours for whatever you wish. My knowledge, my body, my will is yours to do with as you will. I will do anything for you, will go anywhere for you, will—”

He curls his other hand into the hair at base of Barty’s neck. The litany of promises seem as if they will go on forever if he allows it. He curls the hair around his fingers, presses firmly against his skull and yanks Barty’s head backwards, relishing in the moan that spills out of his mouth. He wants to crawl under the boy’s skin and find all the way to make that sound repeat itself.

“I do believe that I will take you up on all those lovely offers you just laid before me,” he murmurs, leaning in close enough that he can feel the boy’s breath ghosting its way across his own mouth.

Barty’s eyes slip shut slowly, eyelashes fluttering, pulse racing and Voldemort licks his lips and bites at the curve of the boy’s jaw, let’s himself revel in the boy’s trust.

He licks his way into Barty’s mouth and makes them both a promise. This one, he will protect. All the rest can burn as long as he achieves his goals but this one, the one who reaches under his skin and replaces the red of his blood with the ichor of gods—

— this one he will protect.

  


* * *

  


Sixteen years later he stands alone in a graveyard, skin pressed across bones that no longer feel like his own and he waits.

The rest of his traitorous followers have come and gone. The anger at Potter’s escape has raged and dimmed and flamed and died. Still he waits.

The first rays of sunrise are touching him before he accepts what he’s known to be true all night.

His skin is pressed tight across bones that feel as if they will crumble at the slightest touch and until this moment he had been able to bear it, knowing that this hollow body would still tear adoration from Barty’s face.

How can he rule the world when he cannot even protect the one most devoted to him?

He leaves the graveyard, blood burning with righteous rage and it does not stop burning until he lies unmoving in the great hall, limbs askew and hands still reaching for something they can never touch.

  


* * *

  


This will not be in the history books but let it be known, Voldemort did not come out of that cauldron unhinged and ready to burn the world.

Let it be known, he was only lost when a boy with eyes too trusting and devotion clinging to his every breath, did not return.

When he was left, in a graveyard, watching the sun rise for the first time in fourteen years, in a body finally his own and the one he wanted most, was not there to watch it with him. That is the moment he was lost.

Let it be remembered.

There was a man and his boy.

And then there was only a monster.

_fin._


End file.
